


while the weary nations weep

by aeoleus



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e13 Journey's End, F/M, Post-Canon, like a lot of feelings, man i just finished fmab last night at 2 am and i have a lot of feelings, so et voila, two teens having a breakdown on the kitchen floor no feet apart bc theyre both traumatized
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27182686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeoleus/pseuds/aeoleus
Summary: (“Ed.”He straightens up as if he’s been shocked. He whirls around, a bloody rag pressed to one palm. Winry glances at it, and then at the shattered pieces of a glass on the floor by his feet, and says nothing.“Oh.” He croaks out. “Winry. Did I wake you?”“No, dummy. Thunderstorm did.” Winry says, and as if waiting for a cue, the thunder rumbles again. Ed’s eyes widen as it does, his breath hitching. He turns away again. )Or: the night after the boys come home.
Relationships: (Pre), Edward Elric/Winry Rockbell
Comments: 18
Kudos: 222





	while the weary nations weep

**Author's Note:**

> hi my name is meg and my toxic trait is watching a show and immediately going. "hm. do u know what this needs? more emotional catharsis." and then thats all i write
> 
> hope u enjoy!

* * *

Winry is startled awake by a clap of thunder. For a minute, she just stares at her ceiling, white-knuckling her blankets. Den, curled up at her feet, whines and rests his head on her leg.   
  
“I’m okay, buddy.” Winry whispers. She sits up and scratches his ear. Thunder rocks the house again, slightly more distant this time, and Winry tenses until it passes. 

Downstairs, there’s a loud crash. Winry reaches for one of the wrenches on her bedside table on instinct as she leaps out of bed, before someone swears, the filthy words absolutely incongruent with the young, cracked tone, and Winry’s shoulders slump in relief.

She tosses the wrench back on the table, throws her blanket over Den, patting his head, and grabs her robe as she leaves her room. 

She checks the boys’ room on instinct; Winry used to do it nearly every night, even when it had been months and months since either of them had been home. 

Al is curled up in his bed, one thin arm thrown above his head, snoring softly. Winry feels a small smile come across her face. She adjusts his blanket, makes sure his crutch is within reaching distance, and glances across the dark room, though she already knows what she’ll find. 

Ed’s bed is empty. His sheets are strewn haphazardly across the end, his pillow on the floor. Winry sighs, pulls her robe tighter, and shuts the door as quietly as she can as she leaves. Al looks so tired, still, despite two months in the hospital. She won’t risk waking him.

She pads down the stairs to the kitchen. One light is on, and Ed is bent over the sink, shirtless, hair loose, muttering to himself. 

“Ed.” 

He straightens up as if he’s been shocked. He whirls around, a bloody rag pressed to one palm. Winry glances at it, and then at the shattered pieces of a glass on the floor by his feet, and says nothing.

“Oh.” He croaks out. “Winry. Did I wake you?” 

“No, dummy. Thunderstorm did.” Winry says, and as if waiting for a cue, the thunder rumbles again. Ed’s eyes widen as it does, his breath hitching. He turns away again. 

Winry doesn't go back upstairs. She sits down at the kitchen table. She’s used to this. She’ll wait, if she has to. 

Within a minute, Ed's head bows, the tenseness held tight in his back disappearing. His hair’s gotten so long. It almost covers the scar tissue circling his shoulder, the remnants of his old hardware protruding from his skin. 

Almost. 

“I, uh, broke a glass.” Ed’s voice is rough, cracked around the edges, when he finally speaks after a few minutes. He still doesn’t turn to look at her, but his shoulders have begun to shake, and a lump rises in Winry’s throat. 

“I saw.” Winry says as steadily as she can manage. “Do you need help?” 

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Okay.” 

This, at least, she knows how to handle. How many times had Ed shown up on her doorstep, bloody and bruised, broken nose, destroyed limbs, blinding smile?

How many times had she smacked the back of his head when he complained as she guided his arm back into his shoulder joint? How many times had she wiped grease and blood off of him with one fell swoop? 

(How many times had Ed cried, as she did?

Not once. 

Not since he was eleven, and sobbing in a hospital bed, fever wracking his body, blood seeping through his bandages.) 

But she knows how to suture his wounds, how to fine-tune the wiring in his leg, how to lecture him on keeping his automail oiled and clean until he’s groaning in annoyance, and she gets an excuse to smack him, muss up his braid, stick out her tongue, make him wrinkle his nose and shove her off. She knows how to do this.

So she gets the first-aid kit from the workshop, and she guides him to a kitchen chair, and she sits across from him, one knee slotted between his, and carefully pulls off the bloody rag. 

It’s not a severe cut; diagonal across his palm, shallow. Hand wounds always bleed excessively. Ed is quiet as she picks out the pieces of glass that remain, rinses out the wound, and carefully binds it up. 

“There.” She curls his fingers up over the bandage, feels every one of his calluses under her touch, before she lets go. “All better.” 

“Thanks, Win.” Ed says. His eyes are fixed somewhere above her head, his voice distant. He doesn’t move, not even when she gets up to throw away the trash and wash her hands. So Winry quietly fills up the kettle and gets down Ed’s favorite tea from the cabinet. 

“Why were you even up?” She asks from where she’s standing, over by the stove. Ed startles slightly and looks at her.

“I, uh, wanted to get water for Al.” He jerks his head towards the stairs. “He wakes up thirsty, a lot, and he forgot to get a glass before bed.” 

“Oh.” The kettle whistles; Winry pours the steaming water into two mugs and places one in front of Ed. She wraps her hands around the other one and sits back down across from him. “How’s he doing?” 

  
Ed lifts his good shoulder. 

“Good, I guess. It’s just. He was out of his body for so long. When we got it back- he was so skinny. He couldn’t even stand. It’s better now, but-” Ed’s eyes have developed a familiar faraway look in them, like he’s drifting somewhere far above here, too high for her to reach. Winry reaches forward and molds his uninjured hand around the mug. The warmth seems to ground him slightly, and Ed takes a sip of the tea.  
  
“Hey, this is my favorite,” he says, eyebrows shooting up. Winry snorts. 

“I know, you dumbass. Why do you think I made it?” 

She meant for that to make him feel better, she really did- why _wouldn’t_ it?- but watches in horror as Ed’s eyes grow wide, and then become shiny in the low light in the kitchen. 

“Ed?” She puts down her mug.

The lump in her throat grows as Ed buries his face in his hands. His fingers pull at the roots of his hair. He’s doing the best he can to muffle his sobs, so they come out choked and stifled, and more painful in their abruptness. 

Winry can’t stop herself. She can’t. 

She only just got them back, less than a day ago. 

She can’t watch this-

She shoots forward and wraps her arms around his shaking shoulders, leaning over his chair. Ed’s sobs grow more desperate, his head shoved into the hollow of her shoulder. He falls forward into her, and Winry guides him to the floor. 

“It’s okay.” She whispers into his hair. “It’s going to be okay.” 

Ed doesn’t seem capable of responding. His hands are grappling around each other, nails tearing at his skin, and Winry pulls them around her waist, instead.

His skin is warm, almost feverish to the touch, as she runs her hands firmly over his shoulder, feels every tensed, knotted muscle under her palm, and tries to remind herself that he’s here, that the danger is passed, that he’s not going anywhere. 

“l‘m right here.” She says softly. “I’m not leaving. I’m not leaving.” 

“Please.” Ed gasps out. “Please don’t.” 

Winry stares at the kitchen floor as Ed breaks, and counts the cracks in the tiles, and tries to prevent her heart from turning into a similar mosaic of wear.

Thunder cracks overhead. Rain patters down on the roof. Ed weeps. 

* * *

When he finally composes himself, minutes, hours, days, later, he pulls back and immediately ducks his head as he shoves the heel of his hand into his eyes and takes deep, shuddering breaths. He shakes his hair out of his face and tilts his head at Winry, swollen eyes and all. 

  
“You’re crying.” He notes. His voice has moved from rough to nearly guttural. “I promised to never make you cry.” 

Winry reaches up and finds, to her surprise, that Ed’s right, she _is_ crying. 

“Oh.” She says. “That’s alright.” 

  
Ed wrinkles his nose at her and reaches forward to thumb the tears off of her cheek. His hand lingers, and Winry takes it and presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist. 

“I’m okay.” She repeats, when Ed still looks upset. 

“But I made you cry.”

“It’s a good thing, sometimes.” She says. “To cry when you’re sad. It’s not always bad.” 

“But why are _you_ sad-”

“Because _you’re_ sad.” She sniffles and smiles at him, and Ed stares at her. 

“Oh.” He says dumbly, after a minute of silence. 

He doesn’t seem to know what to say, what to do with his hands, one still trapped between Winry’s, but that’s okay. Ed’s never been good with words. That’s always been Al’s territory. 

  
She glances out the window; the rain’s stopped. The sun is peeking over the hills, lighting the cloudy sky with the lightest pink and yellow hues. 

“Hey.” She squeezes his hand. “Let’s go watch the sunrise?” 

Ed doesn’t seem any less confused, but he allows her to pull him up, and even drops his head on her shoulder for a second, before they take the stairs to the attic, and they climb out the window onto the roof, and they sit silent, huddled together, as the sun rises into the sky, and a new day begins again. 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is ta1k-less, but imma be honest i have been on an atla bender for like six months, so follow at your own risk


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